


Rifts

by Tjerra14



Series: Rifts [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Chant of Light, Circle Towers too, Demons rifts and other stuff, Doubt, Drug Use, Dsyfunctional relationship, F/M, I don't have to study currently, I mean sometimes they do, Might be not, Might be personal, Might take some time to be completed, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Pre-Established Relationship, Pre-Trespasser, Solas doesn't do what he's supposed to do, Taaaaagsss, Things Burn, Wrote this instead of studying, anger issues, dealing with the past, no desk sex (imagine that), the Mark's going crazy, too much buddleia, wait
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2019-07-05 12:35:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15863733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tjerra14/pseuds/Tjerra14
Summary: The Inquisition in 9:44 Dragon: The Breach is closed, Corypheus long defeated, nearly all of the rifts are gone and the Inquisition is still keeping the peace in Thedas. Yet not everything is as calm as it seems - tensions are growing all over Ferelden and Orlais, where the local nobility deems their lands occupied by forces no longer needed, and as if the political unrest wasn't enough, Inquisitor Imira Trevelyan's Mark seems to be getting out of control.Then a letter from a family member arrives with tidings requiring her to travel to Ostwick, the place of her birth, and it might just be a journey into a past she'd rather forget ...





	1. Night

**Author's Note:**

> CONTENT WARNING: Although I refrained myself from using explicit descriptions as I don't deem them necessary, it might still be triggering for some of you as it deals with topics like depression, rape, violence, death/loss and drug abuse, so caution would be advised. 
> 
> I originally intended this to be my main fanfiction about my canon Inquisitor, Imira Trevelyan (also, this was the first thing I had an idea for when this whole "let's write a DA fanfiction"-craziness started), and it was supposed to be written in my mother tongue, German. There's this thing about German though - in my opinion, everything Dragon Age-related just sounds ridiculous even though the translation is actually quite good, so after trying out how to write English stuff with the last two one-shots, I decided to simply go for it (and keep those beautiful Chant of Light verses as untainted as possible, there's already enough Blight in it as it is).  
> So this is it, the first part of something a bit longer than the one-shots (even though it is way shorter than them on its own, but other parts will be longer), something you could call Imira's origin story.  
> As usual, the cited passages of the Chant of Light are taken from The World of Thedas Vol. 2, which, with its predecessor, is a wonderful compendium on DA lore I can only recommend.

And all that I was

I've left behind me

Starset, _Unbecoming_

 

One for sorrow,

Two for mirth,

Three for a funeral,

And four for birth

_traditional_

1

9:44 Dragon

 

At night, the green flicker emanating from her hand had its own fatal beauty, bringing the shadowy creatures on the walls to life, making them the heroes of captivating tales never to be told.

Beautiful, if not for the pain.

_The pain. Oh Maker, why does it hurt so much?_

Small sparks, like liquid Fade, seemed to ignite the air around Imira's fingers as she made a fist, catching the glow in her palms, trying to suffocate it. It didn't help. It had never helped. The light found its way through her fingers dripping onto the sheets, staining their blue, _changing_ it, just like it changed everything it touched, opening, closing, _killing_.

Beside her, Cullen murmured something in his sleep. The glowing Mark made his face seem unnaturally pale, almost _dead_ , as if her touch had sucked all life out of him, earlier, too absorbed in each other to notice, yet plain for everyone to see.

_And you're still wondering why I keep hiding my hand ..._

She didn't understand, couldn't. For years now she bore the Mark, years of evenings falling asleep over books and indecipherable scrolls as unfathomable as the Fade and its magic itself, hoping to somehow find an answer to that scar on her hand, discussing it for hours with Solas until his explanations and theories – _oh, those theories, how_ he _'d loved them –_ made her head spin, and still it was as alien to her as it was back then in Haven. The Breach was long closed, the rifts were disappearing gradually and still ...

The Mark flared up with pain, white hot flames tearing through her arm, eliciting a groan before she could stifle it. For a moment she feared she'd woken Cullen as his features darkened – _again, and he gets not enough sleep as it is –_ but then he turned around, sighing, dreaming, drowning in the Fade, and she felt relieved. Imira didn't want to wake him, not now, not like this, _again_ , not with the past days' calm allowing them an improbable glimmer of hope.

_Why now?_

Each passing day reduced Corypheus to just another chapter of his – _her? –_ legend, another cautionary tale for wet nurses and grandmothers and Chantry sisters to tell wide-eyed children, _and it was the hubris of men that brought the Blight upon the world_ ; and with each telling they moved on, rebuilt, forgot about demons and rifts and fear. It was over, had been for years. They had closed the rifts, there wouldn't be new ones, and the Inquisition still kept the peace they had fought for so long – all was well, if not for the Mark acting up just like it did so long ago, during those first days.

 _Those first days._ It had been days of death and suffering, with the Temple's ashes leaving the stale taste of desperation on their tongues, rendering Thedas a continent full of refugees with nowhere to flee. Days among blind-sided frightened wolves, ready to kill her for a trespass she couldn't explain, didn't remember, didn't commit; and there was the green blaze engulfing her palm, the pulsating _pain_ each time the sky parted …

It would've been the simplest, most reassuring answer. A breach, _the_ Breach, causing the Mark, the Fade burnt into her flesh, to expand, tearing through her body each time it conquered another part of reality.

Yet there was no Breach. No rifts. No Corypheus. No explanation for the nights she woke up screaming, until the guards at the door came running, swords in hand, ready to defend their Inquisitor from the foe preying upon her in her own chambers, only to find there was nothing they could defend her from. The nights she woke _him_ , clawing at the Mark, her hand, her arm until he forced her down to keep her from hurting herself in agony, just to collapse into his arms as soon as the pain made way for the tears and fear, _the fear_ …

 _Everything's going to be alright,_ he'd promised then, covering her hands in his as if to smother the eerie glow. _It'll pass. It's just temporary._

And yet his caresses, his kisses, the way he glanced at her when he thought she wasn't looking, spoke a different language, one born of helplessness and desperation, of truth.

It was spreading.

It was spreading, and they both knew it. She couldn't see it yet, but feel it in the burning and stinging in her nerves, slowly but surely making its way up to her elbow, her shoulders. It had tried to kill her before, and Solas somehow had managed to imprison it, leaving nothing more than a scar and light and power, a power now seeking to escape its confinement and succeeding.

 _Solas …_ Sometimes she wondered if he'd been able to help her now just like he did back then – after all, he had saved her life, and he knew more of the Mark than all her forces combined.

Another gush of pain washed over her, causing Imira to double over, gritting her teeth.

_Perhaps he would've been just as baffled as the rest of them. Oh Maker, please …_

If she'd only had some elfroot left … At first the healers had been very accommodating, _of course, My Lady, as You wish, Your Worship_ , and even then they had warned her about excessive usage – but why would she choose agony for sleepless nights on end over some harmless hallucinations?

Cullen thought differently though, as she soon realized, and the day she stumbled into one of his briefings, laughing and gagging and finally crying as a faint smell of lilac seemed to envelop her, and as she was barely clinging to consciousness he made her promise she'd only take it in emergencies, and made the healers lock their storages away.

Afterwards, the pain had been shier, more endurable at least, a _miracle_ , a future they didn't dare to hope for, until today –

Her hand exploded into green light, forcing a plaintive whimper through her clenched teeth, soon, soon it'd be too much, and then he'd wake up and know, _know –_

_He mustn't._

Skyhold was her castle, and no one would keep her from wandering its halls during night-time, her guards probably assuming she'd just went out to enjoy the crisp mountain air.

_Only in emergencies._

And one of them would run to fetch the healer's storage room key if she commanded it, unlocking the door into blissful, painless oblivion, where the fear couldn't get a grasp on her.

Imira couldn't feel her fingers anymore as she reached for her cloak, numb fingertips frantically clutching at fur-trimmed wool, and the entangled shoelaces of the boots she had tossed aside carelessly mere hours ago proved an insurmountable obstacle.

_Oh Maker, please. Help me._

 


	2. Freedom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING: Although I refrained myself from using explicit descriptions as I don't deem them necessary, it might still be triggering for some of you as it deals with topics like depression, rape, violence, death/loss and drug abuse, so caution would be advised.

2 

9:40 Dragon

 

The fight had already been going on for too long, swords clashing and clanking in quick succession, time dissolving into eternity. Imira could feel it in her sore muscles protesting as she whirled around trying to find an opening, hear it in his panting, see it in the sweat glistening in the morning sun as it ran down the dented templar armour: they both wouldn't be able to keep it up for much longer, and one of them would slip.

_Not long now._

They locked blades and eyes and he grinned, a hunter's smug grin as he saw his prey making one final mistake, already enjoying his victory, turning his focused expression into something crueller and terrifying if not for the familiarity of his features: he would never harm her. Yet he was stronger, and it didn't take much to push her away, staggering, stumbling, tripping, and as her back slammed into the trampled dirt she could hear her sword scraping on the ground, out of reach, a weapon for someone else to use. He picked it up and brought its tip down again, inches away from her throat. Then there was the Fade tingling at her fingertips, denying her defeat, still singing songs of bustling power and lightning and cracked stone. _You're better than this_ , it whispered. _But I promised._

“You lost,” Aidan smiled, taking the blade away and offering her a gloved hand. “You shouldn't get too close to an opponent who is way heavier and stronger than you if you’re tired. Your strength is your speed.”

_And my magic._ His hand remained outstretched, trembling slightly but locked in place as blue sparks scuttled over his armour like little spidery fingers, caging him if he didn't want to get burnt.

“You shouldn't let your guard down,” she replied, amused.

His outrage spilled onto his face, into his voice and would've made its way down into his sword arm, demanding a re-match, this time without holding back, if he'd been able to move. “That's not fair! We had an arrangement, you wouldn't use magic, and I wouldn't try to suppress you, you promised!”

“Well, you know how it is with mages. They always break their promises, sooner or later. They can't be trusted.”

“Not if they keep acting like that, they can't, no,” Aidan gnashed his teeth, and Imira almost bought into his irritation if it weren't for that mischievous spark clinging to the corners of his eyes: his anger had already died down, and as she set him free from his invisible prison merely its remnants joined the fight for a place of honour on his face, losing to a smile. “I imagine a great deal of people _out there_ would be quite resentful if you treat them like this.”

Imira grinned, shrugging. “Moira had it right, didn't she? I'd be the first to die _out there_ , simply because I got myself into something more than I've bargained for.”

He flinched just like he had all the times they've spoken of this before, and although he'd never been one to be bothered by jokes, something was different with this one, almost if … _He’s my brother._ The thought had crossed her mind before and she’d brushed it aside like cobwebs only to find it entangled within her head. They’d known each other for years, been friends since she’d challenged him to a duel back when they were little more than children. Moira, who’d already been his shadow at this point, had tried to talk them out of it, and failed. Imira still remembered the sudden warmth on her forehead as a misplaced blow of his split her skin right beneath the hair line, the redness on Lydia’s fingertips as she patched her up and her mentor’s, _mother_ ’ _s_ confusion at the laughter surrounding her. Each time Imira looked in the mirror the scar reminded her of what the Circle had given to her – friendship, and maybe more.

“Well, not that it matters,” she tried to sound light-hearted, failing miserably. “We won't really see the world _out there_ anyway, so it was idle talk in any case. I mean, why would we ever have to leave the Circle?”

His smile was gone, and she knew him well enough to know it wouldn't return for some time yet.

“You do, though, if the Knight-Commander is to be believed,” he said in a low voice, inspecting the dulled blades of their training swords as if to check them for damage finding any excuse not to meet her gaze. Then he crossed the sparring grounds to put them back into their weapon racks inside the armoury. Imira followed his absentminded busyness.

“Are you going to accept your father's invitation?”

_I wouldn't, if I could._ Bann Trevelyan's letter had been late this year, and some part of her had clung to the foolish hope he'd forgotten, that for once she wouldn't have to attend another one of those pompous, expendable balls Ostwick's nobility flung to bask in their own pride and supposed glory. Balls made of lies and intrigues, where magic was shameful and every door led into the sickening smell of buddleia … _Don't think about that._ Yet he didn't forget, _of course not_ , why would he, when those balls were his best and only excuse to see her?

“Well, if they'll allow me to go –”

“Thom won't be happy.”

_Mother too. And Hendrik –_

“He doesn't know yet.”

Aidan rolled his eyes, sliding the practice swords into the rack and grabbing his own. “Are you on another break?”

“Not really, no.” Imira shrugged, and as his raised eyebrows gave away his disbelief she added, “Not yet, anyway.” _Maybe it’s time for it._

“I’ll never understand why you two prefer to be miserable in each other’s company instead of just going separate ways and be content. Especially since you really seemed to enjoy yourself with Keith during your last _break_. And now? Now you’re back at scraping together what wood you can find from the ashes and trying to fix the shack you so diligently burned down before, time and again.”

“It’s not –” she paused, searching for the right words, finding they were omitting her – “It’s not that easy, and you know that. If it were, we’d just … we’d just split up and be done with it. And Keith, it wasn’t anything serious, really, everyone knows that.”

“You’re afraid of being alone,” he realised, looking up as he fastened his sword belt.

“I’m not –”

“You’d still have us, even without him,” he cut her protest short, “we’re not going anywhere.”

_But I am._ Unsolicited sickness crept up her spine and left a bitter taste in her mouth. _Don’t. Think. Breathe._

“Thanks for the advice,” Imira said in an attempt to focus on the present, the dimness of the armoury, dust dancing in solitary rays of morning sunlight bouncing off rows of naked steel. Steel she’d loved to bring with her, as a meagre substitute for her staff, at least. _Don’t. Think._ “Anyway, in the end it’s none of your business.”

“None of my business? You do realise it doesn’t matter to him which templar he’s yelling at, right? Especially since he’s still quite sore after that thing with Keith, I mean, you choosing a templar of all the men in the Circle doesn’t really sit well with him, and he loves to complain about it to me in great detail because apparently I’m a bad influence. So, you can bet he’ll be coming at me as soon as he finds out you didn’t tell him first.” Aidan snorted. “Look, I know it’s difficult with you two, but not telling him won’t make it any easier.”

_The scent of buddleia. It’s not easy either way._

“I don’t want to go,” she blurted out before she could help it. Aidan, who’d opened the door into the main hall, turned around to look at her, doorknob still in hand.

“You don’t _want_ to,” he repeated slowly, his surprise fading into doubtful understanding. “Your brother.”

_Don’t. Think._

She’d never told them, told anybody, but they’d noticed, they’d guessed, and some of them must’ve guessed correctly. They’d never asked in all those years, not even when she _accidentally_ burned down the buddleia bushes she loved and cared for as an apprentice, not even Thom when their intimacy tensed up and finally turned into mechanical numbness only feeding off memories. Maybe they’d known she wouldn’t answer for a lack of trust, a lack of distance and yet, the concern on Aidan’s face fuelled a courage she’d never believed she could muster.

“My brother,” Imira whispered and the sickness surged up threatening to swallow her.

_Don’t._

He let go of the door, taking a step in her direction only to stop as if he didn’t know if and how he could comfort her. “What did he do?”

_Think._  

“There you are, Aidan!” Moira’s voice rang through the crowded hall well before she managed to squeeze through to reach them. She must’ve spotted them standing in the doorway, too caught up with an unspoken past to realise they’d been turning heads and catching curious looks for minutes now. Imira’s confidence dissipated among the rustling robes and clanking armour as quickly as it had gathered.

_Breathe._

“The Knight-Captain sent me to look for you. There’s a meeting and guess who’s decided not to show up.”

“Ah, so that’s what that note was about,” Aidan said, raising an eyebrow at Imira before turning back around to Moira, seemingly unconcerned.

“You didn’t even read it, did you?” It was more of a statement than a question, and Imira knew Moira had expected it as Aidan had always been rather careless with his duties, especially when they entailed more than just the day-to-day patrols and guard duty.

“No, I had a certain appointment and was running late anyways, so … Should I’ve read it?”

Although she must’ve tried to conceal it, there was something different around Moira, a difference that made early morning notes and unscheduled meetings somewhat more alarming than usual: she seemed anxious.

“That’s what notes are for, idiot. Now get a move on before the Knight-Captain decides you’re going to scrub floors for a week.”

“Is something wrong?” Imira asked. _It’s probably just another Harrowing_ , she told herself, _just templar business._

“Oh, no, no. Just templar business.”

_Which will never concern us._ Too quick was her answer, too light-hearted her demeanour – they’d all been jumpy since Kirkwall and Dairsmuid, and maybe Thom and his Libertarians had been right in their endless preaching after all: the Circle was in danger. _Where from?_

“Are you … are you expecting the Right of Annulment?” It grew quiet for a moment safe for the ringing in her ears, as if the words had smothered all noise in the hall as she uttered them, the mages present collectively held their breath even though it was impossible they’d heard her. _The Right of Annulment_ … no one, not even Thom, dared to _think_ about the possibility, as if the mere thought would make it come to pass.

Moira flinched. “Maker’s breath, will you keep it down? There are enough rumours going around, you don’t need to add panic to the mix. No, it’s not that, Maker beware. It’s, um …” She hesitated.

“You’re blocking the door to the armoury. I’ve got the feeling the Knight-Captain would be even less delighted if he knew you’re not only slacking off on meetings but also preventing others to do their duty,” a familiar voice interrupted them and as Imira turned around she saw Lydia standing in the armoury, smiling, seeming strangely out of place.

“Senior Enchanter!”

“So formal, all of a sudden,” Lydia teased, “Is that your conscience speaking, Aidan? Anyway, I believe you were late for something.”

“Right,” Moira said, “ _Pretty_ late. And you’re going to explain this one yourself.” She grabbed Aidan’s sleeve and pulled him out of the armoury into the hall, where they vanished between the others.

Lydia chuckled. “You’d think he’d get more responsible with age but as it turns out, he doesn’t.”

“What are you doing here?” Imira couldn’t remember the last time she met another mage inside the armoury. Especially her mentor, who spent years trying to convince her a staff was a mage’s weapon, dashing against and not even leaving a dent in the wall that was Imira’s stubbornness, was an unusual sight.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Lydia explained, slowly closing the door. “Someone said you’d been training this morning, and since you weren’t in the courtyard anymore, I figured the armoury would be a good place to start. And here you are, ensuring the floors will be cleaned by Aidan next week.”

“He didn’t mention he had to attend a meeting earlier,” Imira said in her defence, but Lydia just waved her objection away.

“It’s alright. You’re going to visit your parents again, I’ve heard?”

“I’m, uhh …” The sickness Moira had unknowingly chased away was back again, choking her and she could see Lydia noticing, tensing up as concern spilled onto her expression. 

“You’ll be back in no time,” Lydia said softly, “Maybe we could ask the Knight-Commander to send an escort with you, Moira and Aidan seem to be suitable candidates, don’t you think?”

“You’d do that?” It was too good to be true. Escorting a mage who’d left the tower to travel wasn’t unusual, but they’d never seen cause to send someone with her as soon as she’d passed her Harrowing. _It’s not far, and she’s a Trevelyan_ , they’d argued when some of the templars had expressed their concerns, _the whole family is practically part of the Order, they’d be the first to use her phylactery …_ So they’d let her go with one of her family’s servants, without her staff because her mother had insisted, and trusted her to return as soon as the visit was over. And she’d returned, of course, where else would she go if the tower was the only place that still offered safety to her?

“I need you back with your wits about you,” Lydia continued, “They’ll be sending some apprentices down from Markham soon, and well, we all agreed you might be ready for one.”

“You’d promote me –”

“– to Enchanter, yes.” She smiled at Imira’s disbelief. “We’ve been discussing this for a while now. You did very well at your Harrowing, you kept up your studies, and a mage that knows how to fight might be just the one we need with all that’s happening out there.” Lydia paused, sighing. “The templars believe there might be a group of apostates aiming to attack the Circle towers in the Free Marches. We’ll need every fighter we can get if we are to prevail.”

“Attack the towers?” Imira snorted. They’d heard of groups of apostates roaming the Marches, Starkhaven survivors, Kirkwall runaways, the ones that had been hiding from the Chantry but flocked together when the rebellion started. Everyone knew it was just a matter of time until the templars would rout them, and the only threat they posed were the dreams their existence instilled in the head of impressionable apprentices. _And Thom._ “They’ve been to one before, right? They’re basically impregnable!”

“Not if they’re already inside.”

Moira’s nervousness. Thom’s enigmatic smile as his hand flies over another scrap of paper, dropping a trail of letters, his cryptic answers when asked about the recipient. _‘It’s for the magpies,’_ he’d say, _‘You’ve got to feed them to make them stay.’_

_Thom._

“And – are they?”

Lydia shrugged. “No one knows, that’s why we want to ensure we’re prepared, should it come to that. Don’t look so worried, Imira. I don’t think anyone in here would actively support them, they’re fanatics after all.”

“You think?”

“I know,” Lydia corrected herself, in that reassuring tone of hers Imira was too inclined to believe. “It’s going to be alright. Maker willing, these apprentices will already be here when you return, so we can continue their education as soon as possible. Anyway, the armoury probably isn’t the best place for conversations like this. Besides, I suppose since you were training earlier I’m keeping you from a bath or something?”  

Imira smiled, trying to take her mind off crudely outlined magpies, and letters, so many letters. “Kind of?”

_They must know, someone must’ve noticed, they must know that I know, and they’re giving me an apprentice … Thom, what are you up to?_ The spinning thoughts that had accompanied her on her way up from the hall came to a skidding halt as soon she noticed someone had left her quarter’s door ajar. _Not him, not now._ Imira knew who’d be inside even before she found him sitting cross-legged on her bed, books and scrolls scattered all over her sheets.

“Who came up with all this drivel? You’d think hitting someone with a rod of steel wouldn’t vindicate treatise over treatise full of absurd terms – I mean, _Kornhau_ , really? What is that even supposed to mean?” Thom said, not even looking up.

“It’s _Zornhau_ ,” Imira corrected him automatically and shut the door behind her. “Why are you here? And why, in Andraste’s name, are you suddenly into swordplay?”

“ _‘Since it can be easily varied, this cut is exceedingly well suited for attacks’_ ,” he read out aloud, snorted and closed the book with a thud. “I just got curious. You’ve spent years studying these things, and with all this unrest of late I thought it might be useful to read up on it. I certainly didn’t expect it to be that ridiculous.”

“It’s a complex subject, not –” Imira sighed. It was pointless anyway. They’d had this conversation time and again before, and while he expected her to understand, even support his passion for history and mage rights and _freedom_ he’d never shown much interest in her pastimes. “Besides, you won’t learn from just reading about it in a book.”

“Maybe I should ask your precious templar friends to show me, then. I bet Aidan will be thrilled.”

_Not this again._

“So that’s why you’re here? To go for another round of ‘I don’t like your friends, why are you spending time with them’? I thought we’re through with that.”

“You _are_ spending a lot of time with them. Too much, for some people’s liking. The other mages talk, you know. And the things they say! Imira Trevelyan, always receiving special treatment because her father is Bann, and your amity with the templars … Everyone knows you were awfully friendly with Keith, and all these secret meetings with Aidan. They talk, and they talk about Imira, the templar whor–”

His half-opened mouth spilled all the words he seemed to just barely bite back, and even though he fell silent she could hear his anger continuing, spitting out more of his unreasonable jealousy. Instead, he took a deep breath and got up. Loose pages whirled up and settled down again on her chamber’s floor, forming a second carpet around his bare feet.

“I’m sorry, my love,” he said, taking her hands, “You know I didn’t mean it.”

_You did,_ a small voice inside her head answered, _you always do_ , but instead she squeezed his fingers, smiling to keep the bitter taste on her tongue at bay: “I know. It’s okay.”

“How’s your flowers?” he continued, returning her smile as if nothing had happened. “Did you plant that buddleia yet?”

Imira remembered the polished box he gave her for her birthday, the seeds inside and his anticipation as she feigned delight trying not to think of what would grow out of them if she let them touch soil. His grip seemed to have become tighter, expanding beyond her hands towards her chest where it barely allowed for short, shallow breaths.

“I – No. You know I hate it –”

“Hmm, strange. You seemed to like it, didn’t you? I expected you to like them! I even asked Lydia which one you’d like, and she told me about how you could spend hours in the garden watching the butterflies these things apparently attract, and how you used to cut off branches to set them up by your bed when you were younger. In fact, I remember the whole dorm used to smell of it! So, what’s the problem, suddenly?”

Breathing became nearly impossible, and Aidan’s voice echoed faintly in her head: _the shack you burned down_ … When did he stop noticing? When did she stop telling him?

“I – I just grew out of it.”

When did they stop trying?

“You _grew out of it_ , right.” His voice was dripping disbelief and Imira half expected him to press the matter, but he took another deep breath, steadying himself. “Alright, let’s drop it. It’s not what I came here for anyway.”

_It’s just what we end up doing every time,_ she added silently. _Argue. Reconcile. Hurt one another and go numb._

“I just wanted to say goodbye.”

“Say goodbye?” she repeated slowly, staring at him, stunned. _What are you doing, Thom?_

“Oh, not like that,” he said, laughing nervously and gripping her hands even tighter than before. “You’re off to another family visit, aren’t you? So I just wanted –”

“I’m not going yet, Thom,” Imira told him while trying to ignore the pain in her fingers. “Where did you get that impression? I don’t even know if I’m going –” She fell silent, examining his expression, looking for a clue that would explain his sudden change of mind. He’d always begged her to stay, and each time she went regardless of his pleas, he’d stayed in his chambers, sulking. “Why do you want me to go?”

His nails bit into her skin.

“I just thought … we … we need a break, both of us. And since you’re about to go – it’s just perfect, you know? You’ll spend some time with your family, I’ll be able to … to gather my thoughts, and when you return everything – everything will be different.”

Crude little magpies, drawn in ink, fluttering in and out of the tower. A group of apostates, willing to take on a Circle …

Outside, something exploded. Below, in the apprentice’s quarters, someone started screaming and as the tower’s bells started tolling, Thom let go of her hands, stumbling towards the window, scrambling to grab his staff.

“They’re here, they’re early,” he gasped, and for a second distress scurried over his face.

_Everything. Everything will be different._

“How – what – who are they?”

_Not if they’re already inside._

As he turned away from the window, clasping his staff in trembling fingers, his smile had returned, together with a spark in his eyes she’d never seen before.

“The Magpies, my love,” he said. “Freedom.”


	3. Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING: Although I refrained myself from using explicit descriptions as I don't deem them necessary, it might still be triggering for some of you as it deals with topics like depression, rape, violence, death/loss and drug abuse, so caution would be advised.

3

9:44 Dragon

 

The next morning came with the haziness of fever dreams entangled in cold sheets, measured by her heartbeat conducting the rhythm of the throbbing in her hand. The pounding conjured up the disrupted images of yet another night spent on her feet: a soldier's face dissolving in the torchlight as reality waned, vaguely familiar voices leading her down vaguely familiar hallways, and then, Cullen's face etched into the blue hour, smiling in his sleep. He'd looked so peaceful, then, so _happy_ , and she'd allowed her fading consciousness to take some of that happiness with her, if only for some minutes of blissful ignorance. Dreams of a future, turned to nightmares as the night died, and when a servant knocked to tell her she was expected in the War Room, only his scent still clung to the pillows.

“You're late,” Leliana said, not even looking up from the pile of papers she was rummaging through as Imira entered the room. Josephine merely nodded in salutation, Cullen didn't seem to be present although he'd left her chambers earlier this morning. They seemed to have been at it for hours already, judging by the amount of crumpled parchment littering the floor, witnesses of fruitless discussions and discarded ideas.

“I'm sorry, I was informed just now –”

“We sent a messenger this morning,” Leliana cut her short, forcefully shoving an inkwell to the side to make room for her documents, “It's nearing midday already.”

The inkwell tumbled over the edge, shattering on the floor. Imira watched black droplets trickling from her boots to join the puddle forming beneath the table.

“I –”

The rustling amplified. _Maker, she even manages to make paper sound impatient._   

“Well, maybe the messenger remembered being yelled at last time because he chose an 'inopportune moment', as you called it, and decided to wait until you had time to sleep off whatever adventures you felt like going on last night,” the spymaster suggested. “Does that sound reasonable?”

 _Adventures,_ Imira thought, dipping her toecaps into the ink, _what a nice way to put it._ She'd never been a sound sleeper, prone to wake up at the slightest noise, struggling to fall asleep again, but ever since the tower burned sleep had become a luxury, each passing day presenting her with another dancer to join the roundelay of eyes, faces, monsters that choreographed her dreams.

 _Do the dead ever come to visit you, Leliana?_ she wondered. _Do you see the fear in their eyes? Hear their pleas? Bring the knife down again to their throats …_

“I take your silence as affirmation, then,” Leliana resumed. “But since you're finally here, we can come to the matter at hand.” A stack of papers followed the inkwell over the edge and did their best to dry up the puddle.

“Shouldn't we wait for Cullen?”

Leliana answered in a biting tone, “I'd originally assumed you two were _busy_ when you didn't show up, but as it turned out, our Commander is far more sensible when it comes to attending to urgent affairs, so he already knows. In any case, I'd not want to wait for him to finish his calibrations, or whatever he is doing with his soldiers.”

 _Inspecting the troops_ , Imira corrected her silently, _and probably finding an excuse to go for a drink with Rylen._

“So what are these _urgent affairs_ , then?”

Josephine began to speak, “There's news out of Caer Bronach. You remember, the fortress in Crestwood? The local lord wants his castle back. As he sees it, we seized it.”

“It was occupied by bandits,” Imira said, rolling her eyes.

“Yes, and since we didn't give it up as soon as he decided to return, we are now the squatters,” Josephine continued patiently. “Which puts us in a bit of a difficult position. So, to keep the matter from escalating any further, Cullen will –”

_You want to send him away for Maker knows how long to run some errands for you._

The Mark chose the moment of realisation to remind Imira of its existence with a twinge.

_As if he was the right person to deal with some flustered nobles. As if ..._

“Those are Leliana's men, mostly,” she objected.

“We can't just send our spymaster. You know the fickleness of nobility. He'll see that as an affront. There was already a formal complaint against the Inquisition's presence on their lands filed with the Chantry –”

Imira felt her patience slipping away to take an unsolicited break. “Maker's breath, how hard can it be? We're keeping the peace, surely Cassandra must know that.”

“Oh, she does. But she also warned me she might not be able to rule in the Inquisition's favour in that matter, if she doesn't want to lose support among the Orlesian and Fereldan nobility. So Cullen is our only chance.”

_As if we had all the time in the world._

“Still, I don't see how –” she made a last attempt to change their minds but as soon as she'd uttered the words she felt they could as well just have been empty air: this meeting was, in fact, no discussion, they'd already decided and all that was left was to inform her of its outcome. Mere months ago, Imira would've dismissed them simply for trying such a thing, but now … she felt tired. _It doesn't matter anyway,_ a small voice whispered from the back of her mind, _in a couple of weeks … No. Don't think._

“At least let me go with him,” she said feebly, rubbing her hand against her trousers to ease the stinging. “That noble might be more willing to compromise if the Inquisitor herself decided to deal with the matter personally, wouldn't he?”

“Indeed, and under any other circumstances I would've recommended taking that course of action,” Josephine agreed. “However, that is not the case. You're needed elsewhere.”

Another pile of papers met with the remains of the inkwell on the floor, then the rustling stopped altogether: Leliana triumphantly held up an envelope that looked like it'd been trampled upon before.  

“A message for you,” she handed over the letter. “Bann Trevelyan seems to require your assistance.”

“Bann … Trevelyan?” Imira echoed slowly, struggling to remember how breathing worked as she unfolded its content with trembling fingers. There must've been a mistake, she decided as she skimmed through the first sentences. It couldn't be true. It was written by a Trevelyan, alright, but those weren't her father's words … Even his mere signature seemed to mock her. “Bann … _Hendrik_ Trevelyan?” _No. No, please, no._

“Well, his way of addressing you is … inappropriate at best, Inquisitor, but Leliana assures me it wasn't to be expected otherwise,” Josephine blabbered away nervously only to fall silent as Imira stared at her blankly.

 _No._ It couldn't be. And yet, there it was, his words inked on the paper crumpled in her fist, its edges stinging into the edges of the Mark, amplifying its pain.

“You – you knew.” There was no answer, and she didn't need one. Josephine's discomfort as well as Leliana's sudden interest in one of the wooden ravens she used as markers on the map was more than enough. _Breathe_ , she thought, trying to calm herself but failing. The throbbing in her hand became slowly but surely unbearable. If she'd only taken some more elfroot in the morning ... Gritting her teeth, she asked, “When were you planning to tell me?”

“We thought –” Seemingly desperate, Josephine glanced at Leliana in a plea for help. The spymaster sighed and put the figurine down again.

“So you didn't receive a raven from Ostwick,” she concluded.

Imira snorted angrily. “Oh, should I've been expecting one?”

“You're a Trevelyan. We thought they'd notified you but given the circumstances,” she gestured at Imira's glowing hand, “you preferred not to speak of it.”

“Oh really? Leliana, there's probably thousands of pages about me in those little reports of yours. Did they all fail to mention my family isn't exactly thrilled about my existence? So why, for the love of the Maker, should my dearest brother suddenly care about notifying his abomination of a sister their father has died?”

“We didn't want to burden you any further –”

“So _that's_ it. You've got access to any kind of information, but as soon as you think they'll _burden_ me you just decide not to tell me. Look at the poor Inquisitor,” Imira scoffed, “she's got so much on her mind already, better not disturb her any more, she might go kill a dragon again, out of pure desperation. Oh, she's _so reckless_ , we can't risk her making any more hasty decisions, so let's withhold the crucial details altogether, she'll be happier in her ignorance. You're supposed to be my advisors, but how am I supposed to trust you if your advice gets people killed just because you didn't want to _burden_ me?”

Leliana's voice was low, but sharp as a razor when she answered, “We all agreed on acting solely in the Inquisition's best interest. If we were forced to alter information to keep that promise, you've only got yourself to blame.”

The air itself seemed to leave the room. Imira could feel anger burning in her veins, riling up her magic until it trickled into the outside, spontaneously discharging and sending the letter to the ground in a trail of smoke and ash.

“My Lady,” Josephine began in a guarded tone, but Imira cut her short, “No need, ambassador. I will see myself out.”

Broken thoughts like splinters stinging through the ringing in her ears accompanied her as she aimlessly wandered through the halls, fingernails biting into the palms of her hands, again and again and again, _Father’s dead, they knew, they knew, he’s dead, oh Maker, please, no, he can’t – he’s dead, and I didn’t even say goodbye …_

She found herself in the nook of Skyhold’s courtyard she called her own, a little garden set back from the main one, hidden behind boxwood hedges, where she cultivated flowers and herbs beneath the castle’s walls. Patches of daisies and asters lined the small paths, threatening to swallow them in their splendour, and back there, framing the wooden bench she used to draw on, the vetches …

They looked just like the ones her father had given her the day the templars came to take her to the Circle, blue and pink and red, and he’d smiled and said, _See you soon, little magpie. Make us proud._

She’d clutched the flowers in her hands the whole way to the tower, held onto them even when they took the blood for the phylactery and stared at them until she fell asleep in the evening, praying to the Maker to take her magic away, to let her become a templar after all, to _make them proud._ Yet the flowers soon withered and dried and finally turned to dust, the Maker never answered her pleas and her father’s pride was a shy thing hidden behind closed doors, reserved for when they were alone. He’d look embarrassed, then, setting up freshly cut vetches on the windowsill – _You know how it is with your mother, little magpie, she’d prefer me not to talk to you at all_ , and Imira would nod, handing him another vase. She knew all too well.

Her mother had always cherished her and for eight years everything had been just right, the right pose, the right steps, the right twirls with a sword in her hand, the right songs in the evenings, when darkness fell but sleep was late as always. Yet the day the Fade reached out from Imira's fingertips her presence had become as unpleasant to her as the shattered dreams she hid beneath a guarded smile until the magpie was the only thing she'd left.

 _No matter what, you’re still my daughter_ , he’d repeat when it was time to leave for the tower again, and she’d always believed him, and the promise of the vetches: _See you again._

Soon after, the magpies had nestled in and now – and now …

_He’s gone._

The garden blurred into specks of blue and red and white. _Gone. Gone. Gone._ Screams, silent if not for the crackling flames suddenly erupting from the vetches. _Father …_

“Imira? What – what are you doing?”

She turned around to find Cullen standing in a flowerbed of chrysanths and asters, eyes darting between her tear-streaked face and the burning flowers. He must’ve run to get here, judging by his tousled hair, the colour on his cheeks.

“How did you –” she began, hastily wiping away the tears, “How did you know I was here?”

Cullen bit his lips the way she’d learned meant he’d rather not answer, and she understood. “They sent you.”

“Yes.” He didn’t even try to deny it.

“Are you supposed to drag me back into the War Room?”

_They knew._

“No,” he said slowly, “I was worried about you. They said you didn’t take the news very well, and I thought –”

“ _Not very well_?” Imira interrupted him as she felt her anger rise again, intertwined with the Mark’s pain, making it nearly impossible to retain control. “My father died. How do you take that _well_?”

Cullen stared at her blankly. “I’m … I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

_They knew._

It was too much. She’d allowed them their secrets in exchange for keeping her own, had trusted them to make their own judgements regarding the Inquisition, _for the best of all of us._ But above all, she’d trusted him, like a fool, only to find her trust betrayed and him to be just another liar no different than the ones who called themselves her advisors. _Or was he?_

“Right, you didn’t know,” she spat. Her clenched fists did nothing to smother the magic that’d made its way into her palms, balling up the fire of her rage. “Next thing you’ll tell me you first heard about that dragon’s existence when Suledin Keep sent you a raven I wouldn’t return in time because they had to shove my guts back inside of me and hope I wouldn’t die?”

They’d found excuses when she returned, of course they had, but none of their assurances could bring the soldiers back who’d so senselessly paid the price her life came with. Although she’d dropped the matter quickly in favour of other, more pressing issues as Corypheus made his final attempt to enter the Fade, she’d not forgotten, couldn’t forget, not with the scar reminding her of the screams each time she looked down at herself, the screams and that recruit burning just like the daisies she’d tossed the fireball into.

“It was a mistake, and I’m sorry, we should’ve told you, I know, I –” His voice broke under the cold glare she considered him with.

“Then why didn’t you?”

“You've got to understand – they, we … just wanted to protect you.”

“Protect me?” she scoffed. The daisies catching fire as she hurled another fireball at them gave her a grim sense of satisfaction, innocent white petals flaring up and shrivelling away to dust as she burned their short lives away. _Death and destruction._ “What from?”

He hesitated.

“From yourself,” he said, finally, eliciting joyless laughter.

“Ah, yes, I’m dangerous,” she snarled. “You came to your senses, at last. My, you didn’t even have to learn it the hard way, like Thom did.”

“That’s not what –”

“He got into my way when the Circle fell,” she ignored his objection. “And do you know what happened? What _I_ did?”

“Imira!”

Another batch of daisies caught fire, then another one, until the hungry flames bit their way into some neighbouring asters. Why couldn't he just get lost, at least pretend he didn't care for once? Why couldn't he just leave her be?

“Imira, please stop before someone gets hurt!”

His plea tore at her swirling thoughts just as the anger and the Mark's throbbing, making it nearly impossible to breathe. Or was it her magic leaking out of her fingertips, spells cast without as much as a blink as if the Fade itself was in control? Cullen was right, someone _would_ get hurt. And since he was the only one around …

“Get. Out. Now,” she hissed through clenched teeth, but he only smiled and took a step closer. “I'm warning you –” 

“I can't,” Cullen said softly, “sometimes you deserve to be protected from yourself, remember?”

He took another step. _Stubborn Fereldans._ And another one. _Too close._ She aimed her next fireball at him.

White hot pain tore through her hand, like an axe splitting her arm, her shoulders, her head, filled her with glaring light as the world toppled over, wrenching a cry from her lips. Blinded, Imira felt for the walls, the ground, _anything_ to hold onto, but there was only the abyss she tumbled into, and in it, a hazy memory.

Her blade perched upon her knees, unsheathed, catching glimpses of the flames whenever a branch gave in to the heat of their campfire, a shadow on the steel. _You’ve left your staff behind_ , in that factual tone of his. _I don’t need it, Cole_ , she replies, but he doesn’t seem to be convinced. _You want it to weaken yourself, so you can’t hurt them. Hurt him._

_And yet you’re going to._

Cole had known it, of course he'd known – _your love is like your anger, tearing apart the safety of control._

She came to half lying on the ground, half held by Cullen, her face wet from the tears, surrounded by the glow of the still burning flowers and the searing blaze that was the Mark. When she turned to look at him, she found he’d singed his eyebrows. _You’re going to. Maker, what have I done?_

“Oh no, that wasn’t you.” Seeing the terror that’d spilled onto her expression, Cullen shook his head. “When you collapsed, I … I tried to catch you, but the Mark, it lashed out – it’s never done anything like that before.”

 _Not to you, no,_ Imira thought, yet she remained silent. And there was no need for a correction.

“Those burn marks on the sheets,” he realised, “You didn’t topple a candle.”

_No._

“I'm afraid, Cullen,” she whispered, burying her face in his fur collar.

In response, he tightened his embrace. “We’ll find a way,” he said with a slight tremor in his voice betraying his own fears, his doubts, “We have to.”

The walk back to her chambers was accompanied by concerned soldiers and curious nobles, spouting rumours born of her puffy eyes, the grim look on Cullen’s face as he dismissed any questions and asked for a healer, and above all, the glowing hand she’d pressed against her stomach.

Then, when the healer closed the door behind her, leaving them with the familiar warnings and the decoction, the smell of which still clung to Imira’s hair from the previous night, all that was left was to wait.

“What you said earlier – about that boy, and the Circle … You never talked about the night it fell.”

Imira kept staring at the fanciful shapes climbing out of the mug clutched in her fingers, steam slowly dancing in the coolness of her chambers promising imminent release. As Cullen sat down on the bed next to her, she looked up to meet his gaze, “You never asked. And besides, I just wanted to forget about it.”

“But you can't?”

It wasn't a question, not really, and she knew he already had his answer – too often had they kept each other awake in nightmares, too often had they found each other in the darkness, staring wide-eyed at faces kept alive only by memories. Too often had they heard the other's past screams.

“No.”

There was a pause. _He's going to ask_ , she thought, closing her eyes, _after all this time, he's going to ask, and I'm … I'm going to answer._

“What happened to him?”


	4. Dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNING: Although I refrained myself from using explicit descriptions as I don't deem them necessary, it might still be triggering for some of you as it deals with topics like depression, rape, violence, death/loss and drug abuse, so caution would be advised.

4

9:40 Dragon

 

Dust had gathered on the tapestries decorating the hallway, and each step muffled by the carpet was an explosion of grey particles dancing in the flickering light of her torch. She recognised this place, although it’d changed – the last time she’d walked past those tapestries their golden embroideries had glittered in the sunlight, and the glassy-eyed trophies had seemed to watch over her. But now it was dark save for her torch and the reverberation of a lit fireplace at the end of the hallway, and spiders scurried out of empty sockets when her shadow fell onto them. Imira shuddered and felt for the sword strapped to her hip to find comfort in its weight.

As she neared the fireplace, two figures departed the darkness, facing the flames, seemingly unaware of her presence.

“The danger is past,” said the first, a man whose voice rang painfully familiar in Imira’s ears. “You have nothing to fear.”

“There is everything to fear,” said the second, in a woman’s voice. “You saw her that day. There was nothing human left inside her. They should’ve killed her on the spot instead of nurturing the monster she’d turned into. And now you’ve allowed it back inside.”

“I’ve heard your prayers,” he sighed. “You asked the Maker to bring her back, and there she is.”

“No,” the woman whispered. “I asked the Maker to bring back my daughter. But my little girl died, and the Maker in His cruelty sends us this abomination that took her shape to remind us of what might’ve been.”

The sheath of Imira’s sword scraped against a suit of armour hidden in the shadows, and the figures turned around.

For a moment Imira thought the woman her reflection, then a log flared up to reveal the lines traversing her freckled face, the white strands of hair taking over the red. The coldness in her eyes.

“Ah, there she is,” her father smiled, “I was glad to hear you’ve finally passed your Harrowing.”

“Well, I wasn’t,” her mother said coolly, glancing at Imira like she might’ve have looked at an especially disgusting spider, “It would’ve been better for everyone if they’d killed you.”

“Kaitlyn!” But his protest was faint, and then the darkness surged up to swallow him until Imira’s outstretched hands only tore at the night.   

“No!” she cried, “Father, please! Don’t leave. Please, just … Don’t leave me with her.”

There was no answer but her mother’s contempt: “Oh, that’s of no use. He’s gone, can’t you see? He’s gone, and he won’t ever come back.”

Behind her, shadows clawed at the fireplace, smothering the flames. With the blackness came the cold – not the crisp, snowy cold of winter mornings, but a stranger, menacing one. The kind of cold she’d only experienced once before – lyrium singing in her veins, trapped between dream and reality, and fanged emptiness telling tales of failure …

Her torch went out.

“Are you afraid of the dark, Imira? Are you afraid of death?” Sniggering, sneering, her mother’s voice moving in the dark. Or was it her own? Her sword leapt into Imira’s hands, but how could she defend herself against an invisible foe? Against herself?

“They should’ve killed you,” she heard. “You took too long. You know the rules.”

Something that felt like frozen cobwebs clung to her face as she turned around, trying to follow the source of the noise.

“Who are you?” Opening her mouth had been a mistake – the cobwebs eagerly made their way inside, tied themselves around her tongue and lined her throat, catching the taste of bile in her mouth as she gagged.

“We’ve met, remember? They’ve waited a little while longer, allowing you to come back. Allowing you to take me with you.”

The cobwebs came alive, hundreds of spiders scurrying about her throat, her tongue, her face, and with them the memories came rushing back: cold, pervasive cold, the demon’s grimace barely concealed by its hood, her magic flickering underneath its empty gaze. A faint voice, unknown yet still familiar, as if she remembered something that had yet to happen:

“Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, 

I shall embrace the Light. I shall weather the storm.

“I shall endure.

What you have created, no one can tear asunder.”

The demon had screeched triumphantly, then, and she’d known she’d fall to the templar’s blades. Yet, when she opened her eyes, they’d smiled and taken their swords away, and someone had extended a hand to help her up, and there was the outline of an arrow piercing the demon’s body etched into her dreams.

“You couldn’t defend yourself.”

“I wasn’t ready,” she whispered, finding herself on her hands and knees, surrounded by the sickening crunches of crushed chitin.

“You’ll never be,” the darkness answered, “and people will die for it.”

The dead shells burst into millions of spiders, countless legs crawling, crawling away from her building up familiar walls, hallways, a whole tower. A burning tower.

“Run, while you still can!”

Screams, smoke, lightning boring its way through her closed eyelids. Explosions, tearing apart her hurried prayers.

_Maker, please don't let it be real._

_Everything. Everything will be different._

Dark outlines on the blood-soaked floor, a smashed body covered in now oversized robes, small bubbles building up in the corners of her mouth –

_Maker, please –_

“Imira!”

Brown eyes, bared teeth, his features blurred out by a red shimmer, the air brimming with forbidden magic –

“Imira, wake up!”

She gasped as his expression suddenly changed from cruel to concerned, his grimace to a soothing smile, the gleam to the light of a fireplace on his skin. The tower’s main hall that’d invaded her dreams made room for her chamber, now with walls firmly set in stone, and Thom sitting on her bedside trying to calm her down.

“Wh-where?” she stammered.

“Everything's alright,” he said softly, taking her trembling hands into his. “You're at the Circle, don't you remember?”

_I do._

Her dream preserved for all eternity. The spiders had covered them, but now, awake, they fell away, made way for the truth: Dying templars, begging for mercy, praying. Dead mages, their empty eyes staring lifeless at the ceiling. Demons, standing guard over the corpses.

_Thom, bumping his toes at Lydia's motionless body._

_Lydia …_

It wasn't real.

It _mustn't_ be real.

Looking around, she saw that seemingly nothing had changed: the flickering twilight still cast fanciful patterns on the carpet, and her staff seemed to blink at her, inviting her hands to take it out of its rack. But there was something that felt wrong, as if the walls were closing in, ready to devour her.

“What – what happened?”

Thom's smile grew wider.

“We've won, we’re free!” he beamed, and every word left a bitter taste on Imira's tongue.

_Free._

Maybe that was the word for the feeling lingering in the air: Freedom. Freedom bought with the scorch marks staining the wood of her staff. With the blood of the innocent. The death of people who didn't even know what they were dying for.

_Maker, at what cost?_

He seemed to interpret her silence as joy, as he just leaned in and kissed her forehead.

“Freedom, Imira,” he whispered full of excitement. “Just imagine: everything we've ever dreamed of is ours now. A home. A family. There’s no templars to stop us. They have no power over the Circle anymore.”

Her brain only provided single, chopped thoughts now, drawing her attention towards things she hadn’t noticed before: the singed door sagging from its hinges, left ajar, the smell of fire still in the air. Towards the barely healed scars on his wrists he tried to cover with his robes.

“You used blood magic.”

His smile died.

“It’s just a tool, Imira,” he said, “a tool to improve our chances.”

Thom tugged at his sleeves to hide the red lines from her gaze, but they’d already burned themselves into her memories, where they merged with the screams and all those hazy pictures – the apprentice stumbling towards her, blinded by the smoke, blood spurting out of the stump of what was once his right arm, collapsing against a statue as templars rushed past them with blades drawn.

_He never had a chance._

The chaos that’d gripped the main hall she’d followed them into, fire bouncing off the wall of armours and swords they’d formed in the tower’s defence, and somewhere beyond that line, the roars of demons clawing and ripping their way through everyone who didn’t make it inside in time.

_Just a tool._

“They killed templars and mages alike,” she said feebly.

“Only those who fought,” Thom countered.

The dying apprentice. The young girl that’d arrived only two days before, after she’d been found freezing puddles on the streets of Ostwick. Ava, the tranquil who’d always helped her with her garden. _You don’t believe that,_ Imira replied silently, clenching her fists, _you saw them. You saw their bodies._

Yet he didn’t seem to have doubts, or perhaps he didn’t allow himself to doubt, instead cupping her fists with his hands, trying to pry them open until their fingers were caught in a painful knot.

His nails digging into her skin, he asked, “Why did you fight?”

Initially, the templar’s training had proven to be superior to the demon’s mindless raging, and soon they’d advanced, now directly engaging their attackers, a rugged band of apostates. _The Magpies._

Imira remembered barriers expiring with their casters felled by templar swords. Some of the enchanters had joined the effort, and she’d found herself among them, her staff spinning and twirling in her hands as the magic danced violently around her. Lydia had been there, too, grabbing her by the shoulder and shouting at her to get back, get to safety, _what safety, there will be none if they break through, I can fight, I will fight_ , and then –

A flash of lightning, Lydia’s body tensing up, then going limp, collapsing onto the granite slabs, Thom’s frame breaking away from the smoke, smiling, and the realisation as the world faded to black – 

“It was … right.”

Her fingers gave in to the pressure as he tightened his grip.

“I had to save you,” he said in a hushed voice. “They would’ve – they don’t look too kindly on their enemies.”

 _They_ , she noticed, _not us._ Then she understood: the door, left ajar not only to keep it from jamming, but also to prevent their secrets from festering. His glowing joy not only celebrating the sudden prospect of freedom, but also masking the faint realisation their prison had just changed captors. The pain in her hands telling the truth: he knew, after all, he’d brought death upon them.

“What about the others, then? The ones who couldn’t fight and were killed regardless, the ones you didn’t save?”

“I’m sorry, everything was –” Thom’s lips moved silently in the search for the right words – “rather inconvenient.”

“Inconvenient?” Imira snapped. Anger shot through her veins, discharging whenever her magic found his, and filled the room with the crackle of electricity. He flinched and let go of her as blue lightning like spidery little fingers ran up his arm, but she grabbed him by the wrists and pulled him close. “Inconvenient?! All those people, and you just call it an _inconvenience_?”

_The apprentice. Ava. Lydia. You brought them here._

Inside of her, deep down where the magic originated, something shifted, as if the door that’d guarded her connection to the Fade had been opened just a bit wider. The flickering turned into a constant glow, reverberating with the sudden fear in his eyes.

_You killed them._

“Imira! You’re … you’re hurting me!”

Cloaked in her usual magic, barely perceptible beneath its familiarity, darkness strode through the doorframe, stopped and raised its head to sniff the air.

“Maybe you deserve it.”

She remembered how she’d longed for his gaze to meet hers, years ago, how she used to lose herself in his eyes later on, until one day she’d found it burning on her skin, and wanted him to shut them. _Forever,_ whispered the beast, _it’s all his fault._

“Don’t,” he said with a weak smile. “They’ll know. You won’t get away. They’re watching you.”

 _His fault,_ the beast repeated, and her magic surged up following its command. Thom inhaled sharply, a sound that was like music to the beast’s ears.

“Then why haven’t they locked me up already? They saw me fight, didn’t they?”

He remained silent, looking down at their hands locked by the lightning growing out of her fingertips.

“It’s inconvenient for you, too,” she realised. The beast was taking over now, gathering the Fade around itself, preparing to strike. “Do you really think I care? That I’ll spare you because you begged them to spare me? You’ll have to do better than that.”

His smile widened. “Aidan and Moira,” he said, “they’re alive. For now.”

Taken aback, the beast paused and let go of her magic. Imira could feel its disappointment – or was it her own as her anger faded with the lightning covering his arms, the promise of power? _Darkness_ , whispered the memory of her dream, _are you afraid of the dark, Imira?_

“Where … where are they?”

“I can’t tell you,” he said reluctantly, avoiding her gaze.

“ _Where?_ ” she insisted.

“You don’t understand. If I tell you, you’re going to do something stupid, and then they’ll –” Thom fell silent. His joy was gone now, replaced by the doubts he’d tried to conceal, and a wordless plea: _Don’t. Don’t._

 _For now_ , he’d said. _You’re going to do something stupid._ They’d imprisoned them, she concluded, and most likely she’d find them down in the dungeons, in the cells they had so rarely used to confine caught apostates until the templars had decided on how to deal with them. She’d never asked what happened to them, although she could imagine – only once the tower’s tranquils were joined by a stranger, but the basement door had silenced so many more screams. 

_Are you afraid of death?_

There was only one fate awaiting the templars, her friends, herself.

“I love you, Imira.” Thom’s voice trembled as if the words’ weight was too heavy for him to bear, and she could feel him shaking when he took her face into his hands. “Do you remember that day after your Harrowing, when you told me of that dream you had? The one in which we were free? Had a family, and grew old together, outside of the tower?”

She remembered. It hadn’t been as much as a dream, but rather a fantasy, born out of the exhilaration that was the realisation she’d survived her apprenticeship, the thrill that was their young love. For her, it hadn’t lasted long, her new status fading into usualness, her excitement ground away by their reality – they were mages, the tower was their home and life, and while the templars had tolerated their relationship, they knew their goodwill came with no guarantees.

Yet for him, those words uttered in a moment of affection had grown over the years: “I’ve tried to make it possible ever since. For you, for us. And the templars – the templars have no place in it, can’t you see? You have to forget about them.”

 _You know I can’t_ , she replied quietly, but the words got smothered by his lips and the lies caught against his caresses, strangely far away, and with the beast inside screaming for control she could hear herself whisper, “Alright.”

The day went by in silence. In its tranquillity the tower seemed alien to her, once familiar but now frightening just like the hallway in her dream. The main hall that’d always bustled with life was scorched and empty now, inhabited only by ghosts: in the corner of her eyes, Imira could still see the fire’s gleam bouncing off of the templar’s armours, and when she turned around she half expected to find Lydia standing behind her, smiling proudly when she refused to turn back. In her mind, the dead were still fighting, and all was not lost.

And it wasn’t, she told herself, Moira and Aidan were still alive, and she kept on walking, meeting the magpie’s wary glances, smiling courteously whenever she met Thom’s libertarians, averting her eyes when they dragged another loyalist towards the First Enchanter’s chamber. Thom had said Mallen, the magpie’s leader, only wanted to show them the error of their ways, but Imira wasn’t so sure – the air was tingling at her fingertips, and as the afternoon turned into evening the tower’s walls became cold to her touch.

She went to pick a fresh batch of blood lotus flowers. Outside, she could hear screams originating from the upper levels, but they were soon muffled and died off, as if someone had closed the windows.

They were preparing, Imira realised, afraid the Chantry would retaliate at the loss of another Circle, and in their fear, they made mistakes: no one had thought about guarding the lyrium stores, or the armoury, and in the night, she found the basement empty.

Not entirely, however: they’d set up a little desk, illuminated by a candle, and just like earlier, when she’d first come down here, steam was slowly rising from an unattended mug next to an opened book. The guard couldn’t have been gone for long, and she knew she didn’t have much time if she didn’t want to risk a confrontation.

With trembling fingers, she uncorked the flask she’d prepared, and carefully counted the droplets falling into the drink – three, four, five, not all sources agreed on the right dosage, would it hurt if she added a bit too much?

 _He’s one of them,_ a small voice whispered in the back of her mind, _and you mustn’t fail._

Six, seven, eight, nine, she continued, _please let it work_ , then she closed the flask again, slid it back into her pockets where it clinked softly against the lyrium vials, and took a deep breath. _Please._

“What are you doing?” the returning guard’s voice rang unnaturally loud through the hallway’s silence.

She spun around to face him, knowing she must’ve been caught, that she’d failed – yet his boyish face didn’t betray anything aside from genuine curiosity, and surprise. In a way, he reminded her of Thom – they raised their eyebrows in the same manner, and in the dim light their bewilderment looked quite the same.

“Oh, I’ve –” The book seemed to wink at her from the table. “I’ve just been … reading a bit.”

“Interesting, isn’t it?” He passed her to sit down, picked it up and flipped carelessly through the pages, stopping here and there, as if he’d found its title appealing among countless others on a shelf in a library, but wasn’t sure if it’d be worth to read through. Closer to the candle’s light, the likeness was gone: his hair was too light, his eyes too pale, and Thom had never allowed a page to get caught up and crumble when he’d closed a book. “Tethras sure knows how to turn our struggle into a compelling story. I just wish Hawke wouldn’t have disappeared after completely wrecking Kirkwall’s circle, we could’ve used her when we were fending off templars and running for our lives.”

 _Murdering innocents, you mean,_ she corrected him in silence, yet the words she said out loud were less treacherous: “And now you’re here.”

“And now we’re here,” he agreed, smiling faintly. “Which leads to the real question: What are you doing down here?”

He was nothing like Thom, Imira realised, he was much sharper, had left all his idealism behind, if he’d ever had it to begin with. Contrary to her dreamer boyfriend, this man had been on the run, and survived. He wouldn’t swallow any lies.

“I – I couldn’t sleep,” she muttered hastily. It was the truth, technically – it had been difficult to keep calm as the night had approached, and when it finally came, Thom’s rasping breath next to her had counted the seconds, minutes, hours until midnight, and then some. He’d still been fast asleep when she’d snuck out of the damaged door, the vials of lyrium heavy in her pockets, the flask clasped in her sweaty hands. Thom had asked her about ‘the tea’ earlier, when she’d tried not to pass out from the fumes the boiling blood lotus had filled her chambers with, and she’d told him she wanted to try something new against insomnia. That also had been the truth, technically – but it wasn’t her insomnia she’d try to combat, but the guard’s, who was staring at her as if he was slowly figuring out what was going on.

“I go on walks to tire myself out,” she continued to explain, and he raised his eyebrows a bit further.

“In the corridors leading to the dungeons,” he said, doubtfully.

“There used to be no one here,” she replied, another truth. Technically.

He changed the book for the mug, carefully sniffing at the steam rising from it and frowned. Blood lotus had a faint smell, she’d read, retaining it when added to other beverages, and some could detect it better than others. He must’ve smelt it, or at least suspected her, judging by the curious looks he cast at her as he cradled the mug in his hands, thinking.

 _Maker, please_ , she prayed, _let him be unawares. Let him drink._

He took a sip.

“I know you,” he said, after a while.

“We’ve never met.”

“No,” the guard agreed, “but I’d recognise that smug face anywhere. You’re that Trevelyan girl Mallen told us about, are you not?”

He wouldn’t swallow any lies, she knew, there was no use in denying it, so Imira merely nodded.

“I’m from Markham, originally,” he mused, still examining her, “your brother enjoyed nagging me for years. Howard, wasn’t it? Model templar, prim and proper in his shining armour, and oh, how the girls liked him.” He scoffed. “No, _everyone_ liked him, but in the end he was just another templar – relentless, merciless. A murderer.”

 _Howard_ , she thought. It’d been her last visit, her father’s name day. The silence on her ride home, the family retainer’s nervousness getting hold of his horse, both animal and rider disappearing into the underbrush as they neared Ostwick. The servants averting their eyes when she passed them, the forced smile on her father’s face, her mother’s tears. The empty seat at the table, somehow more menacing than Hendrik’s hungry gaze lingering on her as he played with the knife in his hands.

“Did you kill him?” Imira asked.

“He led the party that pursued us,” he shrugged. “You’re quite like him, actually.”

“I’m nothing like my brothers,” she protested, prompting a chuckle.

“I saw you fight. Like him, you’re good, really good. And like him, you enjoyed it, too. We could use someone like you. Too bad you seem to have trouble discerning where your loyalties lie.”

There was only one response she could hope he’d accept, one that wasn’t too far off the truth: “With Thom,” she replied automatically. He didn’t seem satisfied, though, instead he smiled knowingly as he took another sip.

“You know, he begged us to let you off the hook as soon as the fighting subsided. Mallen was against it, said you’ll always be a templar’s puppet, said you could never be trusted. And she’s right, else you wouldn’t be here, would you?”

 _He knows,_ the realisation screamed inside of her, already reaching for the Fade whilst she returned his smile, uneasily. _Oh Maker, please. Please let it work._

“You’re dangerous,” he continued, and there was a threat lurking beneath his friendly demeanour. “You’d bring the whole Chantry down on us if you could. But you won’t, because you’re also smart. You’re an apostate now, and you know that. They’d judge you just like they would us, if we didn’t kill you first. After all, Mallen is a vengeful woman – imagine what would happen to the foolish boy who’d convinced us to let the danger run free, that he had all under control. Imagine his soft puppy eyes pleading for mercy – he’s done all this for you, and you wouldn’t want to disappoint him, would you?”

“No,” she said, and she wondered – was it still the truth? “He wouldn’t deserve a fate like that. He loves me.”

“Ah, but that’s the thing, isn’t it? You might be his sweetheart, but is he yours?”

 _He knows, Maker, please, please …_ Another voice, she recognised it as the beast’s, broke away from her spinning thoughts and took a seat in the front row. _He keeps drinking. He thinks he’s playing you_ , it whispered, _but it’s your game._

_I don’t even know the rules._

_You make them._

“You should go back to him,” the guard suggested when she failed to answer. “It’ll dawn soon. He’ll be looking for you when he wakes up, and what will we tell him?”

The candle on the desk had nearly burned down, its smoking flame twitching violently being smothered by molten wax.

“It’s still dark, though.”

He laughed.

“Are you afraid of the dark? You’ve clearly chosen the wrong corridors for your nightly stroll, then.”

_Your game._

“I might have.”

“Good to know we’ve reached an agreement on that matter.”

“Yes.” It was a lie in the dark as the candle went out, nearly drowned out by the guard’s curses and the sudden ringing in her ears. She could hear him scramble for another candle, frustrated by his own inattention, and there was the beast, urging her to grab hold of the Fade, to finally take control.

_Are you afraid of the dark, Imira? Are you afraid of death?_

A small light flickered and grew nourished by a fresh candle.

The guard frowned when he spotted her still rooted to the spot. “Why are you still –” he began, then he shuddered and collapsed with a sigh. The mug fell from his limp fingers and clanked to the floor, and to the spiders on the walls Imira was a mere shadow in the candlelight, slipping into darkness. 


End file.
